Take it or leave it: behind the 'peace process.'

Christian Century, April 2, 1997 by James M. Wall

While I was there the CPT team started a 700-hour Lenten fast, which would end on Easter morning. The aim was to call attention to the planned demolition by Israel of 700 Palestinian homes throughout the West Bank, homes the Israelis say were built without permits or are located on land needed for bypass roads or settlement expansion. The team erected a tent on a sidewalk in downtown Hebron where they talked with passersby to explain the purpose of their fast.

Outside of Hebron I visited a demolished home and talked with the owner and his young son. (I thought .about what goes through a child's mind as he sees his home uprooted and destroyed by a bulldozer driven by soldiers.) Looming above the field where we stood was Kiryat Arba, a long-established Jewish settlement of 6,000 people. The official reason for the demolition of this particular home was that the owner lacked a permit to build on his own land. The proximity of Kiryat Arba suggested, however, that the demolition had very little to do with a building permit and everything to do with plans for a road to link Kiryat Arba with the Jewish settlement inside Hebron.

As we walked around the rubble, I noticed the remains of a bed frame crushed beneath the wreckage, an indication that the destruction had occurred with little warning. There's some evil in demolishing a home, no matter what the political purpose. I recalled a comment a Hebron journalist had made to me earlier that day. He said that if one wants to express extreme condemnation to someone in Arabic, you say, "Yikhrib beitak," meaning, "May your home be destroyed."

RELATED ARTICLE: Rapture

In a straight-backed pew

on the balcony's front row,

I keep my distance.

Still, the sunburst

of red-hot gladiolus,

fireball mums,

spikes me blind.

I envision a claw primed for prey,

bloody talons,

sharp as carpenter's nails.

I take communion

as my changeling spirit

whips my own blood into biting wine,

kneads my flesh into sweet

bread, rising hot

from the oven.

Spurious angels serve me up

on the scent of yeast

and the spiraling flight of ash.

Spear-driven,

I shatter the stained glass.

Ashley Mace Havird